


don't take me home

by tellmeagain



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26184247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellmeagain/pseuds/tellmeagain
Summary: Quinn falls in love with Santana, in six stages.
Relationships: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Comments: 2
Kudos: 139





	don't take me home

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off of a work by Reena Bakir (rbcages on Tumblr)! I highly, highly suggest giving it a read; it's beautiful and will provide context as to why I chronicled things the way I did. 
> 
> link: https://rbcages.tumblr.com/post/86609261570/one-you-see-her-for-the-first-time-and-shell
> 
> extra fluffity fluff w more fluff. enjoy!

You meet her on the first day of sixth grade. Or, rather — _see_ her. 

You’re trying to figure out how to unlock the combination that keeps your locker shut, but it just _won’t give_ even though everyone else's seems to be working just fine, and you can't bring yourself to ask for help because the other kids will just look at you funny. 

So, you push your glasses further up the bridge of your nose and try again, fingers pulling frustratedly at the lock when you’re met with no success. 

You swivel on your heels and start making a beeline towards the nearest bathroom, halting in your tracks to prevent knocking into a girl striding down the hall. 

You’re a little too late, and your shoulders brush against each other’s lightly, and she shoots you a look with eyes that aren’t exactly friendly but aren’t uninviting either. They linger on you, and your tongue tangles in your mouth when you try to murmur an apology.

The girl just continues her trek down the corridor, her shoulders squared and her chin high. Like she’s some twelve-year-old superwoman. And maybe she _is_ , you think to yourself, when you follow her footsteps and try to mimic her stance. Your shoulders slump moments later because you decide that’s not you. 

When you can’t sleep that night, you replay the moment over and over again in your head, because she was the only person who wasn’t your teacher that acknowledged you for that long, albeit without so many words. 

She’s Santana Lopez, and she becomes your best friend while you’re Lucy, but she’s a complete stranger again by the time you’re Quinn. 

You spend your years of high school together wrapped in an endless cycle of hating and caring for each other, over and over and over again.

*****

You both wake up the morning after Mr. Schue’s not-wedding, and it’s less awkward than you expect. You’re out of bed first, and when she complains of dry eyes as a result of falling asleep with her contact lenses in, you simply toss her one of the white bathrobes hanging in the closet. To hell if you’re going to change back into your scratchy dress already.

Checkout isn’t for another few hours, and you both scan the room service menu to see what it has to offer because you’d rather eat an overpriced hotel breakfast with Santana than sit through lunch with Mom and her new boyfriend. 

“Can you pass the butter?” she asks you half an hour later, her slice of toast waiting patiently in her right hand, and it’s just about the only thing said during the meal. Admittedly, you’re grateful, because at least no words can disrupt the peaceful silence that envelops the two of you, and you’ve found that there’s always been a natural comfortability with Santana around — even the times you were at each other’s throats. 

After, you both get dressed back into last night’s clothes, and when you’re waiting for the elevator to take you down to the lobby, you slip her hand into yours. And by some act of God, she doesn’t let go. 

So you stay that way until she insists you be the one to take the first cab that pulls over to the side of the street. 

She pulls you into this deep hug that almost makes you remember all those years ago when you called her your best friend, and you can nearly feel her eyes dart around your surroundings before she’s mumbling, “Love you, Q,” into your hair. 

You pull back a little so that you can kiss the corner of her mouth in response, and when you climb into the backseat of the cab, you leave her and Lima behind for the second time.

*

It’s weeks later when her abuela goes into emergency surgery to have a malignant cyst removed, and she can’t afford a plane ticket home, so she steals Rachel’s Metro Pass and takes the next train to New Haven with nothing in tow but her cell phone and wallet.

“Come here,” you urge softly, and she curls into a helpless ball on top of your sheets and lulls her head onto your lap. You stroke her hair with one hand and use the other to slip her glasses off of her face for her while her shoulders shake and she soaks your leggings with her tears. You sit there, silently and helplessly, as the empire that is Santana Lopez crumbles into pieces right in front of you. 

You stay up with her as she awaits the phone call from her mom with the post-op update, offering her a newly-washed Yale t-shirt and black short shorts to change into so she can sleep in clean clothes. Her nose is stuffy when she teases you for neatly folding the outfit she came in, but there’s a tiny smile on her face, and it’s the best thing you’ve seen all night.

It’s 2 in the morning, and you’re halfway through _She’s the Man_ when Santana gets the call that her abuela is in stable condition.

“You can rest now, San,” you tell her, feeling relieved yourself, and you let her kiss you before you both fall asleep with your fingers threaded together over the covers.

*

The round-trips from New York to New Haven and New Haven to New York become a weekly thing, as do the return of the sexual trysts, and the pillow talks that always come after. 

Tonight exhausts you more than usual, and as Santana runs her fingers delicately up and down your arm, you fight the desire to close your eyes because more time sleeping means less time with her.

“Do you want pancakes?” she asks you, her voice raspy and sweet, and you frown against your pillow. 

“Like, right now?”

“No,” she laughs lowly, and _good_ , you think to yourself, because you really don’t want her to stop tickling your skin like that. “Tomorrow. We can probably beat Rachel to the kitchen.”

“Ok,” you smile at her. “Can we get some fruits? I need to have blueberries on mine.”

“I know, Q,” she says, and actually, yeah, she does, because her mom would make both of you pancakes all the time the mornings after each of your sleepovers in middle school. “Yeah, we can go to the market.”

“Will you wake up early enough?” you ask her, because she _always_ sleeps in, and Santana rolls her eyes before tugging your bare bodies closer together. 

“If my wake-up call is sexy enough, then yeah, maybe,” she shrugs, and you’re shaking your head as you laugh, but you know you’ll be giving her exactly what she wants once the sun comes up. 

She falls asleep first, and it’s 4am and you’re wide awake because you can’t stop thinking about her, how gentle her fingertips felt on your skin, how _easy_ it is for you two to lay here together for hours, how she treats you with this care and affection you forgot she was capable of.

You wake her up in record time the next morning, and Kurt nearly dips his head out of his bedroom to see what the muffled commotion is all about.

*

“You’re so smart,” she tells you when her eyes scan your ENGL 147 study guide, nudging your laptop to the side so her head has more space to rest on your lap. 

Normally you’d revel in Santana’s inexplicable need for physical affection, but your final is in two days, and you spent most of the weekend studying Santana’s body as opposed to the inner workings of Global Literature. 

“Thank you,” you trace her jaw with the tip of your thumb, and she uncaps the pen on top of your notebook to draw who-knows-what on the inside of your wrist. “But I told you I really have to study today.” You softly nudge her head, and she groans as she rises and your laptop reclaims its spot on your lap. 

She plants a full kiss on your lips, and you want to feel annoyed, but _c'mon_ , she's just so good at that. _“San.”_

“Ok, go study then.” Another kiss. 

“You’re so irritating.”

“Yeah.” Another. 

“Put _these_ ,” you point a finger close to her deliciously plump lips, “away.” Your attention is back to your laptop screen.

“ _Geez_ , Quinn,” she’s groaning again, and you know it’s just to bait you back into a conversation, but you concede anyway. 

“What?”

“You have such a big crush on me that it’s, like, stupid.” 

You gawk, she smirks. _God_ , that smirk. 

“You spent the entire morning going through decks of flashcards... _with_ me, _for_ me. And I’m the one with the crush?” You’ve developed a smug look of your own now, but of course, Santana’s undeterred. 

“So maybe we have crushes on each other,” she challenges. Your gaze lowers to her lips, again. “Oh man, you wanna kiss me _so_ badly, Q.” 

“Maybe so,” you breathe out, unsure which comment of hers you’re responding to. Perhaps both, but your mind flashes with the thought that whatever you feel for Santana is way, way more than a crush. 

_You_ kiss _her_ this time, holding her chin between your thumb and pointer finger. Her eyes stay closed for a split second when you pull away, and a small flame sits in your chest because something about this woman in front of you sets every inch of you ablaze. Then she’s wiggling her eyebrows at you teasingly. “You’re so immature,” you reprimand gently. 

“I know,” she confirms with a quick, innocent kiss to your neck. "Ok, I'm done now. Seriously. Go study."

*

A few hours later, you let Santana nap in your bed while you go to 5:00 mass, as long as she has something for dinner ordered by the time you return to your dorm. 

Mass is muscle memory, and when you go to kneel down in your pew right before taking Communion, your hands clasped in front of you, all your eyes can focus on are the tiny doodles Santana inscribed on your wrist. Hearts, swirls, the letter S. You lean forward a little and subtly brush your lips against the illustrations. 

You _know_ that God would be accepting of whatever’s going on between the two of you — seriously, thank goodness you’re long over your Bible thumping phase.

But even if He wasn’t, it wouldn’t really matter to you because when it comes to everything you believe in, you believe in you and Santana the most. 

So.

Yes, she was right earlier when she said you had a crush on her. 

Yes, you’re in love. 


End file.
